


The Communication Process

by witchyweeb



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Banter, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Short, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, nezumi is a bookworm and too used to living alone, shion is having none of it, the mice like being read to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchyweeb/pseuds/witchyweeb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we were given a speech assignment to create some sort of presentation demonstrating the communication process so bc im trash i wrote a little nezushi fic OR a tiny look into the home lives of a rat and his mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Communication Process

“Ack!" 

Shion glanced up from the pot of stew he was stirring as the front door opened and ushered in a cold breeze, as well as a certain navy haired boy. 

Nezumi’s hair was up in his usual ponytail, scarf wrapped tightly around his shoulders and neck. He kicked off his combat boots and pulled off his leather jacket with a shiver. 

"It’s freezing out there!" 

Shion smiled and dropped the spoon, stepping forward to shut the door as his friend hurried to tug his scarf off and switch it for the wool blanket tossed haphazardly over their small second hand couch. 

"It would keep it warmer in here if you actually closed the door, you know. Besides, you berate me whenever I so much as accidentally leave the door unlocked,  
‘You don’t know what’s out there, Shion.’  
'What are you thinking, airhead?'  
'I’m not gonna risk my life saving you from some random house mugger.'  
'I’m sorry, is it too stuffy in here for you, Your Majesty?’" 

Nezumi whacked him on the back of the head on his way to the bookshelves filling at least 50% of their small home. 

What Shion was saying was neither untrue nor unwarranted, Nezumi did bother him repeatedly about his less than cautious habits he clung to despite living in such a dangerous place. Shion had been a content citizen of NO. 6, the main utopia of six created when most of the earth was deemed uninhabitable thanks to war. He had been an elite gifted and talented at age two, granted the privilege of living with his mother in the nicest part of the city, Chronos. This was the path Shion was set on until his twelfth birthday when a raging storm urged a small, hopeless boy into his bedroom. That boy had been Nezumi, beaten and bloodied, a victim of their corrupt government, and branded a violent criminal on the run. He saved little Nezumi’s life that night, and the rat returned the favor four year laters when Shion himself was captured by NO. 6 officials. Since that day Shion had lived with Nezumi in his small, book littered, and abandoned bunker in the West Block. The West Block was just outside the wall surrounding NO. 6 and was home to its rejects and unwanteds. The little block was a den of crime, misery and death. Yet neither boy had ever been as happy as they were in those days. 

"Shion. Shion! Hey, airhead!" 

Shion’s albino head jerked up, crimson eyes shining and white hair ruffled, as Nezumi’s call pulled him from his reminiscing.

Nezumi shook his head in disbelief, "You would be so dead if it weren’t for me.” 

“I could say the same to you,” Shion had returned to their dinner, lowering the heat, before he spoke again. 

“Touche, however I’m not nearly as close to floating off the ground 24/7 as you are,” his voice came out muffled now behind rows of books, copies of classics like The Tempest, MacBeth and a Midsummer Night’s Dream, interfering with his words. 

“You know if there really was air in my head it would be called a pneumocephalus and I would be dead. Which I suspect would be very inconvenient for you." 

"Eh,” Shion didn’t have to see to know Nezumi shrugged, “I suppose I’d have to pay the Disposers a bit extra to get your peculiar little body out of here." 

The Disposers were yet another unfortunate reality in the West Block. Too many unidentified dead bodies ended up in the streets, and store owners needed someone to call to get rid of them (corpses are bad for business). 

Shion smiled to himself as he scooped meager amounts of stew into two bowls, filling a couple cracked mugs with hot water and sugar as well. This was as close as they could come to tea and a meal. Food and supplies were not of abundance in the district, and the two lived on a weak salary from Nezumi’s acting and Shion’s dog washing.

"Supper’s on!” the smaller boy’s voice sung through the bunker and Nezumi emerged from the cave of books, yet another copy of Hamlet in hand and the mouse named after it perched upon his shoulder. 

Shion snatched the book, pushing Nezumi into a seat on the couch in front of their coffee table. 

“Eat,” he ordered, knowing Nezumi sometimes seemed to believe he could thrive on literature alone. 

Nezumi snorted, but opted to do as Shion said rather than make another retort. Shion joined him after turning off the light flame they used to cook, breaking a tiny piece of bread off and onto the floor for their three rodent companions. They ate in comfortable silence, Nezumi offering wordless thanks for the dinner by taking care of the few dishes. 

The night ended as most did, both boys curled up on their single bed, a book in Shion’s hand as he read aloud to the mice, one a tiny warmth on his shoulder and the other two itty bitty lumps beside Nezumi’s right arm. Shion relied on the bend of Nezumi’s legs to hold him up, voice a soft murmur as nimble fingers played with a bit of snowy hair. 

Being in the West Block was seen as no pleasure to anyone, but it felt more like home to Shion than the flat above his mother’s bakery or his house in NO.6 ever had. As for Nezumi, the only home he’d ever known had been burned down along with the rest of his people, but being with Shion, it seemed possible to forget the smell of burning foliage and the screams of the Forest Folk. So, he supposed he would call that home.


End file.
